


Halo Not Included

by Strawberry_Sweetheart



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Falling In Love, M/M, Sort Of, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, dumbass billy hargrove, gaurdian angel steve harrington, steve harrington is done, steve is new to the job and hes trying his best okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-16 02:33:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21263648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strawberry_Sweetheart/pseuds/Strawberry_Sweetheart
Summary: “What the fucks your problem man?” The wings behind him extended outward in a way that was clearly meant to be aggressive and intimidating but… they were the tiniest most pitiful wings of cotton fluff he’s ever seen. Less Cathedral Angel and more generic baby Cupid on a discount Valentine’s Day card--or: Steve is Billy's guardian angel and he's 100 percent done with his bullshit





	Halo Not Included

**Author's Note:**

> midterms are done lads finally got around to writing based on a snippet I wrote on tumblr, like, a long ass time ago on @ billy-baby. 
> 
> sorry it took so long

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Steve’s wings fluff up with his irritation as he paces the roof of a two story house, trying all he could to gently steer the drunk boy away from the edge. 

“Jump! Jump! Jump!” The crowd of equally drunken college students chant from below, the pool has been void of bodies to make space for the daredevil’s landing.

“It’s too high, Billy, come on. You’re gonna hit the shallow end, for God’s sake, and _I’m_ gonna be the one that gets demoted when you land your ass into a grave.” Billy, of course, did not acknowledge him and Steve wondered exactly how he was supposed to stop him if he wasn’t allowed to actually talk to him. 

So he did the next best thing.

He kicked lightly at Billy’s boot, causing the other to lose his footing and slip slightly on the roof’s tile, and then yanked him by the back of his shirt to stop him from actually taking a tumble. Billy was too far gone to feel it anyways. A suspenseful _oohh_ passed through the crowd when they saw their King Dumbass struggle to keep his balance. 

“Fuck.” Billy tensed as he looked down and he seemed to sober up enough to reconsider his life choices. Steve looked pleased.

“Wow, that was really scary, huh?” It was said in that patronizing voice that one can only use when talking to toddlers and drunk adults. “Maybe you _shouldn’t_ jump. Maybe this is some sign from a higher power to get your ass off the roof.” 

“Pussy!” Some frat guy hollered up to Billy and Steve bristled, knowing that that was all it took. 

Steve watched as Billy chugged the remaining beer in his hand, liquid courage spilling onto his chest and dripping down to his abs. He watched as he crushed the beer can in his hand and tossed it into the crowd before taking a few steps back. Steve knew Billy wouldn’t make it to the deep end, and technically, _technically_, Steve can’t physically intervene unless its a situation outside of Billy’s control — which it currently is fully in Billy’s control, unfortunately — but still, he launched after him as Billy look a flying leap and wrapped his arms tightly around his chest, struggling to carry him the few feet to safety, wings flapping frantically, and dropped him into the deep end.

Belly first.

He took sick pleasure as the crowd flinched at the resounding impact. He never said he was good at his job after all, and besides, it could serve as a lesson: Don’t Jump Off Roofs. Steve caught his breath and kneeled on the side of the pool, wincing as he flexed his wings. His right wing was definitely sprained, they weren’t meant to take on that much weight. 

‘The things I do for this dumbass’, he rolled his eyes and the crowd cheered as Billy emerged, with slicked back blond curls looking almost brown as the dripped with water and that stupid grin of his stretching his face, as he swam his way to the pool’s edge. 

Steves breath caught in his throat as blue eyes seemed to look right into his, look straight at him instead of through him for once, that Cheshire grin morphing into something sultry seductive.

“Billy?” He asked. 

“Thanks babe.” He purred Steve whirled around just in time to move out of the way as a pretty blonde in a small red one piece bathing suit and pearly smile passed Billy a towel when he got out, a ridiculous splotch of red across his chest and stomach as a consequence of his belly flop. She was just his type, pretty and kinda bitchy (because Billy’s pet peeve was people who pretended to be something they’re not, and had this whole life philosophy that Bitches, with a capital B, are always genuine people). 

Steve reluctantly followed Billy around for the rest of the night as he flirted with the blonde because Billy, he’s come to learn, cannot and should not be left alone at a party. In that time, Steve had learned her name (Candy), her zodiac sign (Aries), and her job (part-time model, because of course). 

Steve had also learned what Billy was like when he was head over heels for someone. His eyes seemed to turn a lighter shade of blue when he looked at Candy as she talked about her major and her pet snakes, Baby and Lula. His aura of sex and swagger soften into something more intimate, open and vulnerable, as the night when on. 

Truth was, Candy was great. Really, she was. She was headstrong and had a slightly aggressive personality, much like Billy. They shared the same interests and opinions on almost everything. She was down to earth but still a dreamer. She was blunt and didn’t beat around the bush. Fuck, she was even smart, on the dean’s list and set to graduate a year early. 

So Steve didn’t understand why, when he was sitting in the back seat of an Uber next to dopey-smile Billy who scrolled through Candy’s Instagram (@heart.baby.lula), he couldn’t help but hate her when she was making Billy smile _like that_.

—

Steve was assigned to a William Hargrove as his first assignment. 

He had managed to read through the thick manual of angel do’s and don'ts — because skimming is just as effective as reading thank you very much — and squirmed in a white uncomfortable chair, waiting for his number to be called. 

_Now serving: 442D at window number 5_

In his haste to stand, the chair shrieked against the white tile, loud enough to echo in the seemingly endless room. Conversations quieted for a second as faces turned to look at him and all he could do was mutter a quiet apology as he squeezed his way through the crowd. At the desk was a glass divider, on the other side was an older looking woman, ‘Lila’ her name tag read, with narrow reading glasses and large decorated wings with gold badges, flipping through papers without sparing his a glance. He took the time to wonder at her huge wings and three glowing halos showing her rank and status, it made his own seem pathetically small. He pulled in his wings tight against his back.

“Steven Harrington,” she finally looked over her glasses at him, “first time getting off the bench?”

“Y-yeah, um —”

“You’ll be assigned to Elizab —” 

Another angel with noticeably smaller wings and came up to whisper something into Lila’s ear and Steve watched as her expression soured, taking the offer file and flipping through it. The angel next to Lila chanced a glance at Steve, rolling her eyes when he tried to smile politely and gave a small wave.

“Another one?” Lila exhaled a put off sigh and took her glasses off to rub at her eyelids. “Okay, well, change of plans _Steven_. You’re being assigned to William Hargrove and will be deployed immediately.” She flipped through the file, aggressively stamping among the dotted lines, “Approved”, before all but shoving the thick file into his arm and calling the next person in line. 

—

Candy and Billy broke up 10 months after. 

She was by far the only one of Billy’s girlfriends that he actually approve of — although a bit reluctantly. She didn’t bullshit around problems like Stephanie or Stacy or whats-her-face. She didn’t do crack in Billy’s restroom behind his back like Abigail or have a criminal record like Dakota. Candy called Billy out on his bullshit, made him face some of his worst qualities and motivated him to get his shit together. Hell, she got Billy to quit smoking and ease up on his binge drinking. Candy was _good_ for Billy. 

But Candy is no saint and her patience ran thin.

_ “You’re a good guy, Billy, but I can’t be waiting around for you to become the type of man I see in you.”_

It was officially week 2 post-breakup and Steve was _this close_ to ripping out his hair. He had taken it into his own hands to hide all the available alcohol in the apartment and watched Billy completely destroy the house looking for it from his perch on the kitchen counter. There were pots and pans pushed out from under the cupboards, couch cushions strewn about as if a bottle of fireball would appear tucked into the side of the couch like a lost remote control — Billy was getting desperate.

Steve saw the tell tale sign of his fingers twitching and saw him instinctively reaching for his jean pocket, hand digging behind the small rectangular imprint on the pocket where they previously housed cigarette boxes — only to come up empty handed.

It’s just that he was doing so well — quitting smoking like he did. Candy had encouraged him and each time Billy’s fingers got twitchy and his mood grew irritated from withdrawal, Candy would distract him. She offer gum, always had it on hand whenever he needed, she’d drag him to the gym when they could for him to work out his frustration, but the most effective was distracting him with _kisses_ and _sex_. Steve had been peeved, that was probably the quickest way to become a sex addict, but he’ll admit it had worked so far.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by a frustrated growl and plate smashing next to his head. He flinched and pray that Billy wouldn’t get another noise complaint. The last thing this situation needed was an eviction notice. Steve hopped off from his perch to hover over Billy. Billy sat at the kitchen table with his hair in a clenched fist, tapping his credit card on the wooden table with the other. Steve knew what he was thinking, of going out and just buying a pack of cigarettes of a 6 pack or beer, but Steve also knew that Billy had given up trying to buy smokes and beer when his card ‘mysteriously’ declined each time he tried — Steve had nothing to do with that, maybe, well, but if HQ came knocking then he knew nothing about it.

He hovered a hand over Billy’s shoulder, resisting to smooth the wrinkles out on his shirt and tuck a blond curl behind his ear. Instead, he curled his fingers tight into his palm and did his best to enveloped him with his wings — the only part of him Billy can’t feel physically but, if the manual he skimmed was correct, it would bring at least some emotional comfort. Billy lets out a deep sigh, Steve smiles when he feels his muscles loosen, the harsh lines softening, feels him subconsciously leaning into his wings. It seems like it’s the first time in two weeks that Billy just — stops — and breathes for a moment.

All too soon the moment is broken by a ringing. Billy scoots his chair back and tosses the cushions that are on the floor to the side in order to retrieve his phone that, in the flury of Billy’s meltdown, had ended up underneath the mess.

In hindsight, Steve will kick himself for letting Billy answer the phone at all.

— 

Jason always throws the best parties with the best booze and the best people, so it didn’t take much thought on heading over when he called.

He hovers around the kitchen where there’s a basin filled with ice and beer, and — well — he drinks it. The whole thing. And it feels good. Gomez asks about Candy and he gets a sympathetic pat on the back, “she was a bitch, man, you’ll get over her”, and they make a game out of it. 

Each time he thinks about her, he takes a shot of tequila. Gomez always has a bottle on hand, hands it over easy when he gestures towards it. He’s lost count. Somewhere, in the back of his head, a responsible part of him tells him he’s spiraling, that he’s had too much, that maybe he should slow down and drink water instead. He pushes it back and takes another shot.

He drinks until the lights become bright and their halo of light becomes morphed until they stretch like starts. He drinks until the music is almost unbearably loud and his voice is slurred to the point where it’s impossible to decipher what he’s saying. He drinks until everything he does blurs together — flinging himself from the stairs onto the ping pong table, relishing in the drunken cheers and accepts a bottle he sees from his peripheral vision as he gets up, grinding against girls with bottle blonde hair that remind him of Candy. He drinks until the party is winding down and bodies start to pass out on the floor and couch.

Jason offers to pay him an uber or drive him home, but Jason is just as wasted as he is. So Billy declines the offer and digs out his car keys from his pockets, they rattle as he turns on the ignition. A nagging feeling pulls at him — _you shouldn’t be driving call a cab stay the night _ — and he hesitates as he rests his hands on the wheel. But the thought of staying the night surrounded by a bunch of other drunken bodies and possibly passing out on a puddle of vomit is so unappealing when there’s a soft bed at home and clean clothes and the prospect of a shower and — 

He pulls out of the driveway and heads home. He’s not even that drunk.

Lights pass by in a blur and he vaguely registers honking from passing cars, vaguely registers that his car is slowly drifting into the other lane as he tries to straighten the steering wheel. _Slow down pullover Billy please_, the nagging feeling gets stronger and he taps his fingers against the wheel. He needs a smoke. He takes a shortcut home instead.

The road is dark — there should be more light posts here he thinks — he’s the only car on the road and that’s a good thing, right?

He drifts between lanes. 

The speedometer climbs, but he’s not looking at it.

He’s close to home. Maybe a block or two away.

A white cat scatters across the road.

And Billy is aware enough to avoid hitting the thing.

He jerks the steering wheel just in time— 

Too far to the left.

The car Camaro swerves out of his control and he’s uselessly paralyzed in the seat — eyes wide and his face a pale sheen. There are hands grabbing him — gripping him — and he hears someone’s voice yelling in the passenger seat, making his skin crawl by the high pitched, _terrified_, screech.

Who is that — did he bring someone with him? Why can’t he remember. He’s sure he didnt.

_Billy!_

His head swarms as he crashes and he hears the sick sound of twisting metal — 

Except… The sound is to his right and he opens his eyes, blinking until the world stops spinning, and sees his feet planted firmly on the asphalt, feels someone’s iron grip on the back of his neck and arm. He turns and sees the hood of his car wrapped around the thick base of a tree, the windshield completely smashed and the airbag is already deflating. 

“— I didn’t think you were actually trying to get yourself killed you fucking asshole. I never should have let you go to this stupid fucking party you — you supid son of bitch, you don’t even know how many rules i’ve broken right now just to make sure you didn’t —”

He bends over, puts his hands on his knees, and heaves.

Gross.

— 

He remembers going to church in the mornings with the only pair of nice shoes he owned, black leather and blistering painful, remembers his mother in her nicest Sunday dresses, remembers the droning voice of the pastor waving the Bible in the air while delivering his sermons. But most of all, he remembers the way the sun shone through stained glass windows and filled the Church in multicolored heavenly glows, blues and reds and greens, how beautiful the light painted his mom’s white dresses and blonde hair with its colors. To him, she looked like the angels in the windows, the ones with their white robes that draped over their shoulders like heavy silk, with their pale skin and celestial blue eyes, with their golden locks and magnificent feathered wings extended behind them in promises of protection and love. 

“Oh my baby, I know God has sent all his angels to look over you,” she would tell him. And he had believed her.

He hadn’t thought that angels could be any different than the ones depicted in oil paintings, but here stood an angel — he must be an angel because, insanly, its the only thing that makes any logical sense — very much a boy (and not some genderless being of bullshit) that looked like he belonged in an 80s teen movie as the lead douche bag rich kid. His eyes were the farthest from angel-blue, they were a deep brown that didn’t carry the softness and love that the pastors preach, oh no, they were cold and harsh and looking very much pissed to shit. He was fair skinned, but his hair wasn’t angel-blond, instead it was a warm chestnut mess that stuck out every which way. Maybe he should mention that there were jeans and a vest over a blue striped polo shirt where the silk robes should be — _for fuck’s sake_ — he had fucking _Nike’s_.

“— The fucks your problem man?” The wings behind him extended outward in a way that was clearly meant to be aggressive and intimidating but… they were the tiniest most pitiful wings of cotton fluff he’s ever seen. Less Cathedral Angel and more generic baby Cupid on a discount Valentine’s Day card.

Billy quickly scanned his memories of the day and tried to figure out at what point exactly he had decided to take an acid trip. 

He turns around and empties out the rest of his stomach’s content.


End file.
